


it's so quiet

by zuzhie



Category: iKON (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, disappointingly yet purposefully short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 14:06:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12866124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzhie/pseuds/zuzhie
Summary: He remembers his mom fretting over both him and his little sister. Insisting they wear some falsely advertised masks that would "filter out 99.9% of toxins in the air, 100% guaranteed!" so they wouldn't get sick.





	it's so quiet

Maybe it started in Hongdae. Or Gangnam. Or Incheon. Or even as far off as Japan. Or China.

 

But, wherever it started, Hanbin can't remember the details anymore. What he remembers is the anchorwoman's too-professional voice as she relayed the story, "There has been an alarmingly contagious disease spreading throughout the residents of South Korea. Those not affected have been advised to stay indoors."

 

He remembers the B-roll footage spliced in between an interview of some doctor; people lined up in hospital waiting rooms, all grossly sniffling, wiping pitifully at their pink-tinted noses.

 

"The symptoms of this new, unnamed disease share similarities with those the common cold is known to present, prompting doctors to urge anyone who has experienced these ailments within the last week to seek medical attention."

 

He remembers his mom fretting over both him and his little sister. Insisting they wear some falsely advertised masks that would "filter out 99.9% of toxins in the air, 100% guaranteed!" so they wouldn't get sick.

 

"These symptoms include a runny nose, sneezing, congestion..."

 

He remembers picking up his sister from school one day, noticing some little boy waddling up to his parents clad in a mask and gloves and rain boots because  _ his _ mom probably gave  _ him _ an earful of how quick colds spread.

 

"...fatigue, body aches, chest discomfort..."

 

And if Hanbin squeezes his eyes shut, pinch his brows together, fist hands around his shirt, he can try to forget  _ that  _ day.  _ That  _ day left to slowly fester in the corners of his subconscious until it’s manifesting itself in nightmares that have him drenched in sweat.

 

“…watery eyes, pounding headaches, and chills.”

 

And when Hanbin opens his eyes, he’s standing in what’s left of Goyang: abandoned cars littering the streets, shops with smashed windows, apartments mere shells of their former selves, old fast food wrappers somersaulting across the ground (it’s been  _ forever  _ since he’s had fast food; cravings are  _ no joke _ ). It’s not what it used to be, he knows that. There were once people crowded on the same sidewalk he’s walking down. Things had a rhythm and he had been going through the motions of it. Now things are abandoned, broken, forgotten, and worst of all…  _ quiet _ . Too quiet. If he coughed, its echo would ping-pong along until it reached the other side of the country.

 

He could reminisce all day, probably looking akin to a grandparent raking through hazy memories announcing “Back when I was your age…”, but it doesn’t fix anything. He’s learned to swallow the bitter-tasting pill of his reality begrudgingly.

 

Worn out sneakers eventually stop in front of some banged up convenience store. 7-Eleven, he thinks, because if he squints he can make out faded orange, green, and red on what was once a sign. Glass crunches quietly under his soles, a little too conscious of how loudly that makes his heart pound. These ventures out into town never get any easier. It’s been months, and months, and  _ months _ of silently prowling around for food (specifically ramen—because  _ no one  _ grabs for that when the world’s thrown into chaos), and his chest still tightens with the same anxiety as the first time.

 

Adjusting his backpack strap, he repeats in his head that “this is no big deal”, that “this’ll be like all the other times”, that “all I have to do is run if something goes wrong.” A not-so great motivational mantra, but it’s enough to keep his feet moving forward. All the way through the door left hanging on its hinges, standing in the mess that reflects what his hometown’s reduced to. Bargain priced snacks litter the floor, either way past its due date or stepped on. Some aisle shelves are toppled over. And like everything else, it’s quiet— — it’s  _ so _ quiet.

 

It’s that fact alone that makes Hanbin’s hands tremble more than being amid disheveled buildings, or empty roads, or the trashed insides of 7-Elevens. The silence that surrounds him is suffocating. It forces him to pay attention to  _ everything _ , just in case. It makes his body go rigid whenever he  _ thinks  _ he hears something. It never fails to remind him that his instincts are definitely more flight than fight. 

 

Which would be a huge blow to his confidence if his life weren’t always on the line.    
  
It’s minutes of sifting through too-loud wrappers before he finds something edible. Some packaged food stuffed with enough sodium to stop it from spoiling and give his heart more reasons to consider giving out. That’s good enough for him. A healthy diet is at the bottom of his  _ How Not To Die  _ list. The it’s-so-low-it’s-practically-forgettable bottom. 

 

That’s when he hears it, the  _ crunch _ of glass from feet that aren’t his. The sound of that  _ just in case  _ he’s always on high alert for.

 

Adrenaline's already kicking into gear, making his heart beat ten times harder. Crouching, he’s shuffling his way behind the safety of the front counter. One hand reaches into his backpack, fumbling until fingers clutch the handle of a knife.

 

_ This is no big deal.  _

 

_ This’ll be like all the other times.  _

 

_ All I have to do is run if something goes wrong. _

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. ) the last time i wrote a fic, it was way back in '11.   
> 2\. ) i wanted to test the waters, might expand on this in the future.


End file.
